Lovebearing Storm
by Vytina
Summary: Emotion is weakness — we cannot be rid of it. Desire is reality — we cannot escape it. Love is a storm — we cannot fight it. ON HOLD UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
1. Will Ye Serve

**A/N: After careful consideration, I decided to remove my first Pirates of the Caribbean story ("Maybe It's Time for Me to Dream Too") and extensively revise it. This is the result. I hope it will please my readers. **

**Don't forget to leave constructive criticism for me. It is not only very helpful for future chapters, but it does make me feel good when people take the time to write a little review for me. It also helps me update faster. So please don't forget to hit the little button at the button on your way out.**

**Title: Lovebearing Storm**

**Summary: Emotion is weakness—we cannot be rid of it. Desire is reality—we cannot escape it. Love is a storm—we cannot fight it.**

**Characters/Pairing: Maccus x Lena (OC)**

**Rating: M – rated for some graphic detail and language, as well as eventual sexual content. Ye have been warned.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any affiliated characters. I own my personal characters and the plot of this story.**

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**Chapter 1: Will Ye Serve**

The name of the ship was hardly new to her ears. Ever since she was born, she could recall the stories…the old tales, passed down from captain to sailor, from grandfather to father to son…rumors of the plague ship, a vessel that brought only terror and damnation to ship and sailor alike.

It was the stuff of nightmares.

It was the spawn of the darkest, coldest depths of hell.

The captain was cursed, and the crew with him.

Even now, she could hear the voice—_his_ voice, Master's voice. It was a low voice, gravelly and spoken with a throat rasped by years of inhaling thick clouds of grey smoke, slurred by a tongue scarred and mutilated after a 15-year prior encounter with the East India Trading Company. It was a hated voice…though not nearly as much as those which belonged to his following generations.

She could still remember the faces—the skin weather-beaten and worn from harsh winds; the thick, jagged scars of battles fought and victories won; the smears of dirt permanently absorbed into the natural coppery hue of flesh.

But more than that, she remembered sounds—the scrape of metal against metal, the soft gasps of steam rising through the floorboards…the hiss of leather slithering from around a waist. And smells…there were always smells—the sulfur of cannons and gunpowder, mold mixing with steam in the bathhouse, and perhaps the most prominent of all, the musk of a man, the salty smell of sweat on skin.

But she was surrounded by different sounds, different smells—new to her senses, and the unfamiliarity was nearly welcomed with open arms. The smell of salty skin was stronger now, emitted by flesh completely saturated in sea water, perhaps even down to the very cells. It would hardly be surprising if such was true of this crew—this crew so engulfed by the sea that each and every one of them bore marks of the ocean—barnacles, shells, and small forms of life latched into the skin; strange appendages, mutations of the body that transformed each and everyone of them into the cursed, monstrous beings they were rumored to be.

Pale eyes lifted from the broken and splintered deck she'd been kneeling upon for the last hour. Her shins were protesting, and as she had done so often before—too often, perhaps, for one of her years—she pushed the pain aside, preferring instead to distract herself by looking for the crewman who had brought her up on deck.

For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to remember the crash. It was difficult to remember everything, even if she had cared enough to try. Recalling details from a mind locked down in a numbed state—a well-practiced defense mechanism—was perhaps a truly impossible task, but still there were some things that had left distinct impressions upon the mind.

There had been no warning; only a sudden explosion of wood and small debris shattered throughout the cabin—large, jagged chunks of the walls thrown in every direction. There had been a sharp pain in her upper arm—shards of glass from the demolished lantern piercing clean through flesh and muscle. And then a steady, unchecked spreading of liquid heat, the mess originating at her collarbone and streaking down exposed flesh from there. She had been sorry to watch the stain spread over her clothes; now they would never be clean again.

Ah, there he was.

Her memories were pushed aside once again as she caught sight of him—a solidly-built, though perhaps a bit stocky, crewman. She supposed at one time he'd had long hair escaping from beneath his hat, but now there were only heavy strands of shells or barnacles hanging down to his shoulders. The chains-and-balls he had carried in hand earlier—he'd used one (or both) of them to break down the door—were now latched to his belt, dragging along his thighs with each shuffling step he took.

Two crewmen, dredged up from the depths of the ship, had been forced down on their knees beside her some time ago, and now she became aware of the erratic, sniveling gasps coming from the man on her left. The other, on her right, was putting up a façade of determination, of resilience and defiance. She was not fooled. This display of strength would be shattered all too easily—she could see it in the way his eyes twitched and avoided lingering on the crewmen for too long.

"You stay close and keep quiet, you hear?" this man hissed in her ear. She fought down a shudder of disgust, an urge to lash out and act upon violent desires that had remained suppressed for so long, "Stay silent, girl. If you don't—"

"Quiet, maggot!" a command followed by a sharp blow to the face, delivered by one of the _Dutchman_'s crew—once again, she fought down an urge…this time the urge to smile, to derive twisted satisfaction from the punishment. Still, her eyes only blinked and fell down once more, this time to her torso. All too aware of the eyes lingering almost shameless upon her flesh, stark white even in the flickering glow of lanterns, and still bare, her body shifted, trying to shield herself from leering eyes. Behind her, both wrists twisted in the coarse rope binding her hands, trying to find any weakness in the knot. There was none; the crewman who had bound her knew what he was doing.

A sharp _thunk_ echoed across a silent deck, followed by a softer, nearly inaudible sound, then _thunk_ once more. Her eyes did not move, allowing instead her ears to serve their purpose. The footsteps, though she wondered very much which one was actually a human foot, drew closer, each _thunk_ growing louder with each step. Finally, they came to a deliberate halt, something strong and unyielding scraping against the wood.

A voice, this one new to her ears, spoke. It was definitely a man's voice, but there was a cruel _hiss_ wrapped around each word that doubted the very humanity of the speaker.

"Three still alive." The voice stated, cold and calculating with no expressed regard to the dead or alive.

_Thunk_—_thunk_—_thunk_. Three steps forward, and now she could see the legs—if they could be called such—of this newcomer. The limbs shifted, though they did not move closer yet. And then another voice addressed the three survivors, speaking with the authority of a captain, heavily laced with an accent she could only recall hearing once or twice before, namely from sailors who had run afoul of Master's shores and were pleading for mercy, just before finding they would receive none.

But this voice was not whimpering or begging. This was a voice who had listened to the pleas for mercy, and more likely than not, had granted none in return.

"Who among ye can be named captain?"

On her left, the whimpers and sobs resurfaced with a vengeance; on her right, under a gaze which she could imagine cold and demanding, the figure began to quiver, the façade shattered with mere words.

_Thunk!_ A sharp step forward, voice raised, "I said, who among ye can be named captain?" _thunk_—_thunk_, he moved toward her left; the sniveling sobs grew louder, nearly shrill.

Finally, her head lifted, allowing her eyes to look upon a face that haunted the words of all sailors across the seven seas, feared by even the most bloodthirsty of them. Numerous tentacles hung as a strange beard across the face, splayed down over the chest, twisting and sliding over one another with their own intentions. She would have permitted herself to be intrigued had the situation been different.

"The captain has moved on, sir."

Her voice was strong enough to get his attention, yes—stronger than perhaps she felt in this moment—but a feminine voice among a crew of men was enough to attract the attention of any ears. The captain turned sharply, the anger of his question going unanswered fading from his expression, replaced with intrigue. _Thunk_—_thunk_, he stepped back over to her, leaning forward a bit. "Ye said what?"

"The captain has moved on, sir." She repeated, her eyes meeting his with little hesitation. "You'll find his body in the cabin, or you could just look at my clothes and judge for yourself whether or not he could have survived."

Dark eyes swept over her clothes, red and stiff from the impressive stain stretched across garment and flesh alike. Seeming satisfied with what he found, the captain moved back to her left, eyeing the whimpering man with blatant amusement.

"Tell me, sailor…do you fear death?" his voice was little more than a hiss, and the man's body wracked with trembles.

A cold breeze flitted over the ship, and she could not resist the cold that shook her body. Lifting her eyes once more, she spoke. "Seeing as he won't answer that question until he stops shaking," her voice continued to sound stronger, braver than she felt, "could one of your crew untie my hands, sir? I'd like to compose myself, if you please."

The intrigue returned, even more apparent than before, as he looked back at her. "There be no need to stand on ceremony or impress my crew." He stated, though his tone was not yet dismissive of her request.

"Though I may not have been raised as a lady would," she answered, "I would like to present myself with the decency of one, whether for your audience or for the afterlife."

Something that looked very much like a smile curved a lipless mouth, and with a short, brief gesture from his hand—a hand with one finger replaced by a thick tentacle—a crewman shuffled forward with a blade, slicing the rope clean through and freeing her wrists at last. Though it was a temptation to show relief, to rub the burns out of her wrists, this was not a right, but a graciously granted privilege. Swiftly, she laced her bodice back together, then returned her hands to her lap.

"Thank you, sir." She spoke with a polite, grateful nod.

The captain was in front of her once again, looking at her carefully. "Yer far too young to be sailing these seas." He stated quietly. "What purpose would the captain have for ye on his ship?"

"My purpose is not to tie a sail or steer a vessel." She answered quietly. "The captain's need for me was a more private matter."

"Filthy _whore_." The man to her right spat, his tone intended for her ears only. Yet no sooner had the insult passed his lips than a large claw—an appendage to replace the captain's left arm and hand—clasped around his throat, holding tight while air escaped lungs in short, desperate little spurts.

"I don't believe yer opinion was invited." The words were carried on nothing more than a cold hiss. After observing the man's frantic attempts to breathe for a little longer, he released him, a darkly satisfied expression on his face.

His eyes returned to hers, still steady, as though waiting for him to look at her once again. "Tell me…" he murmured thoughtfully, "What opinion do _you_ hold of yer mates?"

She blinked. "I am but a slave, sir…they are not my mates, but extensions of my master."

He nodded, still looking expectant of her answer. "But ye must hold _some_ opinion of them, do ye not?"

A moment passed in silence, as though his crew shared his anticipation of her response. She felt two additional pairs of eyes on her—one accusing and degrading, the other terrified with the gaze focused solely on her lips, waiting for the words to pass.

The silence, the responsibility weighed on her mind, on her thoughts, this moment that seemed to stretch nearly an eternity. She was a very good liar—one employed as she had been needed such skills as a survival mechanism. And she could lie now just as easily; recite these well-memorized words as she'd done many times before. But if her fate was to be no different than those of her fellow prisoners, then what use were false truths here?

"They are men." She spoke quietly, but each word was strong in its own right and deliberately chosen. "Men who speak with vulgar, unchecked tongues and touch with crude, filthy hands. And perhaps even that could be forgiven if they had something else to offer in the services of manning a ship. But their souls are weak, sir…weak and useless."

The smile twisting his features could only be described as cruelly satisfied, and perhaps there was a trace of awe, pride even. With a dignified air, he straightened and turned to a man standing beside him—one who had retained most of his human features, save for the fingers of his left hand—extended in the form of crab legs, clawed appendages that most assuredly could cause injury, though not nearly as much injury as she suspected could be inflicted by his teeth. From the base of his neck to the entirety of his skull, in place of a human head was that of a hammerhead shark, complete with a row of jagged teeth protruding from his lower lip. He looked to be one in charge of the others, save for the captain—would she be correct to think him the first mate?

"The lady has spoken." The captain said with a sweeping gesture of his clawed hand. "To the depths with them."

A bout of dark, cackling laughter spread throughout the crew as they descended on the sailors. Her eyes watched with a detached, though perhaps twisted, sense of intrigue as blades rose to tender, vulnerable flesh of bared throats. A sharp, well-executed motion—one she suspected to be well practiced—and both bodies slumped, only briefly before they were heaved carelessly into the crashing waves.

Another moment passed, with the crew's attention fixated on the captain. She could see one of the sailors fingering his blade almost hungrily, and though she could not see his eyes, she was certain they were lingering on her.

_Thunk_—_thunk_—_thunk_. The captain stood over her, looking down as though observing a strangely fascinating subject. He shifted in place, then finally addressed her. "Stand."

Obeying this particular command was all but second-nature to her, and she would perhaps allow herself to imagine he was impressed with the way she stood straight, at attention for his inspection. She could feel his eyes studying her, though not nearly in the same way she was accustomed. He was most assuredly looking at her body, but not as men before had. If anything, she felt her body was being compared to that of the other crewmen. If he was sizing her up against his crew—imposing, strong figures against that of a girl barely out of childhood, with a body fit for a dancer, not a sailor—she would be joining her fellows very soon.

"Yer definitely young…and it doesn't look like ye've been fed an honest meal in yer life," the captain noted, eyes lingering on her thin waist, "and ye most definitely haven't ever helped man a ship, nor do ye seem cut out for the work." He looked at her carefully. "Might be an act of charity for me to let ye join the others. So tell me…do ye fear death?"

She kept her eyes steady, not allowing herself to show the fear she felt with every fiber of her being. "Death is nothing but a new beginning, sir." Her voice was quiet, respectful. "If a new beginning to life could erase the memories of the past, what is there for me to fear?"

Now she was certain of it—awe and intrigue writ all over the captain's features. His head nodded, tentacles drifting lazily over his chest. "Well said." He noted quietly. His voice seemed softer in nature with those two words, but with his next, he had resumed his role once again. "Well then, lass, ye have a choice before you. Take yer chances in the afterlife," he nodded to the waves, "or accept a new beginning with my crew. 100 years before the mast." his voice lowered, as though these words were to be meant for her ears only.

"Will ye serve?"


	2. Lena

**A/N: My deepest apologies for the delay in updating, but as I have said, these updates will be few and far between for the foreseeable future. I can only hope what I offer in these sparse times will suffice to please my readers. Please leave me a review and let me know if I am successful in this endeavor.**

**The days aboard the **_**Flying Dutchman**_** pass slowly, especially for a newcomer. But perhaps a bit of newfound companionship will amend this decidedly grim fate.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any affiliated character, only my personal characters and my plot.**

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**Chapter 2: Lena**

The mornings were always pale during this season. Across the horizon, soft and colorless rays slipped through the loosely threaded clouds, grey in color and thin in appearance. The toneless hue above reflected in the waters below, dulling the turquoise Caribbean waters to a muted blue. Blue waves splashed near-silently upon the crusted edges of the ship, leaving colorless residue in their wake. Small droplets found their way through the multiple cracks and splintered planks, streaking across the floor or falling onto the surface of the cannons—_plink_, _plink_, _plink_!

A soft sigh, and her hand came across the round, black surface, brushing away the offending droplets of the cannon she'd just cleaned. Satisfied that (at least for now) it would remain untouched, she moved over to the left and once again began a process which could only be described as tedious and unending. She could still recall the snickering chorus that moved throughout the crew when she'd been ordered down here, perhaps five days ago now, instructed to _prove her usefulness_. While the command was mildly demeaning, she supposed there was something to be said in light of the captain not ordering anyone down to observe her. Either he fancied his crew had better things to do with their time than keep an eye on a teenage girl, or he assumed she couldn't get herself in too much trouble—or rather, she was smart enough to avoid doing so.

She allowed herself to pause after yet another strenuous period of cleaning weaponry—tools of destruction that would always need to be cleaned and polished without any true success. The sting of salt water registered with her nerves, brief as always, and then it faded once more. Her eyes drifted down to examine the cuts etched into the fine lines of her palms, some even extending to her wrists—these were limited to her right wrist, the result of reaching underneath cannons and finding a particularly disagreeable patch of barnacles.

Carefully, she examined these marks now, looking for any sign of infection or other physical damage that might have resulted from exposing the wounds to open air and ocean water. Aside from a minute swelling of red along the most recent injuries—ones she had probably acquired today—or tomorrow, who could keep track of days now?—the wounds appeared to be healing perfectly well on their own. The pain was easy enough to accommodate, and it never lasted long anyway.

Her legs objected at first when she stood up, an unsteady response to the swaying of the ship. Using the wall as support, she moved over to the last cannon in this endless row of identical weapons. This one was the most difficult to work with—she still bore bruises from her first, highly unsuccessful try at negotiating with the barnacles clinging jealously to the cold iron. All the same, she went to her knees (a well-practiced stance for her now) and lifted her hand, fingers wrapped around a ragged, ruthlessly abused piece of rag that all but cried for mercy, to be put out of its misery. Absurdly, a part of her thought to apologize for the abuse it was about endure. She anticipated it would not recover.

Her jaw set tightly, teeth clenched behind her lips as the barnacles scrapped mercilessly at her palm and fingers, opening old wounds and creating new ones along the sides of her index and thumb. The bones ground together in an unpleasant grating sound (inevitable when clenching your teeth, sadly) as she pushed the rag along the rounded surface, her arm stretching out, then returning back in…and out…in…out…in…

"_Private matters, eh?" a voice, hoarse and low—but not quiet—spoke from amongst a jumble of others, all belonging to the gathering of crewmen, right beside the rails, "Doesn't take a sharp tool to figure out that puzzle. Even Hadras could do it."_

_An indignant protest from the named crewman was drowned out in sharp laughter. But not all joined in the amusement. Another voice spoke up, chastising perhaps—though whether it was actually in defense of the unnamed subject remained to be seen._

"_Come off it, you lot…she's just a kid."_

"_Kid or not, she's a woman." A twisted grin over a twisted face, "Remember what that is, Clanker? It's just like a man, except it's got a—"_

The thin threads clenched between her fingers—threads, no longer even a piece of cloth—protested with each drag across the rough, battered surface. She could feel them breaking, fraying with each sweep across a smooth patch, each jerk and forceful battle with the barnacles. It surely wouldn't be much longer before its usefulness would run its course.

"_Nimble little thing—just like a little fish, she is."_

"_Wonder why she never says nothing."_

"_Who cares?" an indifferent rasp of a voice spoke above the rest—a voice that spoke deliberately, with cold authority, "As long as she does as she's told, doesn't matter if she talks that pretty head off or stays silent as the grave."_

A sharp, painful sensation alerted her to a barnacle hiding around the left side of the base. At least now there would be no need to remove that particular specimen with the rag—she'd done a fine job of doing so with her arm. Her hand paused only for a moment to draw the intrusive object from her flesh, wincing slightly at the pain such action produced.

She blinked, forcing the pain away. This was not a painless task, just as life was not a painless journey.

She would know.

"_Girl's to be sent down to clean the guns." A hoarse voice informed the others, dark amusement wrapped around every word. "Says she's to prove her usefulness."_

_Raucous laughter followed this new information. "Seems her old captain didn't have no trouble with that." One crewman stated, a wicked grin on his features._

"_Aye," another agreed, "Why don't we see just how _else_ she's useful?"_

Her hands scrubbed furiously at the sleek black weapon, as though inflicting punishment for some unknown crime—perhaps for causing her grief and frustration, perhaps for collecting such a vast array of possessive sea life, or perhaps because it happened to be there, at the right moment for her silent emotions to spill out upon.

"_I can think of how those pretty legs of hers could be useful…"_

"_Alright, that's enough from the lot of ye." The one they called Clanker—she knew his voice now, knew his face apart from the others—spoke up, seemingly out of mere annoyance if not for his next words, "She's nothing but a quiet kid who wants to be left to herself."_

"_Where's the fun in that…?" she knew that kind of tone all too well—lecherous and greedy. It was just like the Master's voice, this one. "We can't play with her if we leave her alone."_

The rag finally surrendered to the inevitable fate awaiting, falling limp and exhausted against her fingers. Something warm was spreading down her arm, and her eyes found a tiny pool of crimson at the base of the cannon. The source was hardly difficult to locate—more barnacles had come dislodged into her arms, now stained from her blood. Now, it was no longer a simple matter of removing one, but of drawing at least half a dozen out of her limb.

Soon, a small pile of blood-tipped barnacles lay at her bare feet. With a poorly resisted expression of pain, she pulled the very last out of her arm and tossed it to join its fellows. Taking what was left of her rag—nothing completely useful, really—she pressed the tatters to her bleeding arm, staunching the expulsion of scarlet droplets from the gaps in pale skin. A soft sigh of relief passed her dry lips as she settled back against the ship's wall, her hair loyally cushioning her head from the rough boards.

Some kind of laughter passed above her, up on deck. Her eyes lifted for a moment, but maintained little interest. Truthfully, this crew seemed to be able to find almost anything to jeer at, to derive some kind of pleasure and amusement from. The Master had been like that, as she could recall. And not unlike this crew, he had found great entertainment in the torture and suffering of others.

Her hand, nearly unconsciously, drifted to her back—to pull her hair over one shoulder, to allow her to begin braiding it. It was quick and effortless to accomplish with skilled fingers, and while she had once had silk ribbons and other fine instruments to bind the entwined strands, a simple knot fashioned by two parted sections of her hair would suffice.

Heavy, shuffling footsteps caught her attention, coming from above down the narrow, cramped staircase leading to the weaponry, separated from the stairs that ventured into the common area where the crew was known to gather. They didn't sound like the captain's footsteps—and it was highly unlikely he would actually come check her progress in person, not when there were plenty of crewmen to do the job for him. And she doubted it was the first-mate. Like the captain, there were others to look on after lower members of the crew, and he clearly had other matters to tend to—she could only assume this to be the reason she had yet to see him since her soul had been sworn to the devil himself.

The footsteps had grown louder, drawing closer in the few passing moments it took to maneuver down the stairs. Finally, a figure appeared in the shadowy entrance—slumped slightly in stature, with something heavy and metallic clinking around the thighs. After the briefest moment, she recognized the sound, and thus easily identified her visitor.

The crewman paused in the door, dark eyes set beneath a brow weighed down with the barnacles covering nearly his entire face. Silently, he scanned across the row of cannons, finally settling on her in the corner, and then back again over the weapons. Finally, his gaze returned to her. It was not like the stares of the other crewman, which had quickly proven to be cold and indifferent, but something that very much resembled interest, perhaps even curiosity, as though she were a being he might like to learn more about.

"You do all this by yourself?" he inquired, gesturing around with one hand to the cleaned weapons. She knew well that this was a question he could answer on his own. No one else had come down here since she had been sent back into this dark corner of the ship, and no other could be found in the room with her.

From what little she could discern of his expression, she would allow herself to believe it was displaying awe, and perhaps more intrigue. With a short nod, a gesture she supposed he directed more at himself than her, he moved towards her, the other hand holding something large, bulky even, wrapped loosely in cloth. The chain-and-ball dangling from his belt swung with each movement, the chain clinking quietly against each other, balls lolling carelessly across his thighs. Her eyes watched this movement for a moment with an inane interest before lifting to his hand. She recognized the smell almost instantly—it had been a rare occurrence to move throughout the Master's city without the smell lingering upon the air.

He knelt beside her, the items in hand coming to rest on the floor before being unwrapped. Two large fish, stripped of their exterior cover, lay still on the boards. Clearly, they had been cleaned, and she found herself oddly impressed at the neat job someone—would she be right to guess he had done it?—had performed in preparing the now-deceased animals.

"Here," he said, taking a blade and carving a decent chunk of meat out. He extended it out to her in his palm. "It's not much, but it's edible."

She looked at him in silence for the briefest moment, then reached out to take the offering. It was cold, uncooked. A part of her stomach recoiled in horror, wanting to reject it before it had even touched her tongue. The rest of her was too easily reminded that she hadn't eaten since she came aboard the ship.

He seemed pleased when she lifted the fish to her mouth and pulled the meat apart with her teeth. "There ye go…" he nodded, as though a father praising a child, "Need to put some meat on those bones, we do. Can't have ye blowing away with the next wind."

That almost got a smile out of her, but she caught herself just before she allowed such an expression to show. Instead, she moved to take another bite of the fish, ignoring the short objection from her stomach. The meat was definitely cold, and a bit difficult to chew properly, but it was still food. Even if her body protested it now, she would be able to sleep with a full stomach tonight.

She felt his eyes studying her carefully and lifted her gaze back to his face. He blinked and lowered his intense stare, almost as though he were ashamed to be looking at her in such a way. "Sorry," he mumbled, and she found herself strangely touched by the humility and genuine apology she heard in his voice, "It's yer eyes…never seen a shade quite like them before. Except maybe in the sun…like when it hits the water just right. Ever seen that?"

Her head moved in a slow nod, almost uncertain of whether or not she should be allowing herself to think back on those rare moments she could enjoy the sight of a sun lowering across the water, just before it fell beneath the horizon. Perhaps it was wrong for her to remember how much peace and awe she'd felt, gazing out at the golden orb streaming over pale waters, reflection streaked with the white foam of crashing waves.

A low chuckle, friendly in nature—when was the last time she'd heard a sound like this?—brought her eyes back to his face. He had another piece of fish meat in hand for her, and once she'd accepted it, he cut himself a piece as well, shifting back against the wall. "That what yer eyes look like…but I suppose ye hear that from all the men."

Her eyes fell away from him yet again, this time with a different expression escaping—against her will—into her features. He seemed to consider her silence for a moment, then he spoke again, and she could hear the surprise in his voice. "Ye mean to tell me not one soul's mentioned how pretty those eyes of yours are? Not once?"

_Pretty_…this was a word she knew well, and knew it to be used in a variety of contexts—_pretty little thing_ was the most common, the one she was most familiar with. But she didn't remember it being offered to her so…was the right word _genuinely_?

"Well," he stated, "There are more fools in this world than I thought." He nodded to himself then, as though he had come across the answer to one of the great questions of life.

A few moments passed in silence, allowing her to contemplate how it felt to be something appealing to a man who displayed no intentions of manipulating her, of using these offered compliments against her. It was strange, but not unpleasant. She knew enough to acknowledge she didn't dislike it.

In fact…she thought she might like it.

"Tell me, lass," he said thoughtfully, cutting himself another piece, "Ye have a name?"

It was her turn to look surprised—an emotion she wasn't accustomed to experiencing, and even less accustomed to expressing—as her eyes darted back to his face. He was looking at her expectantly, as though he couldn't wait to learn her name…as though he had nothing else to look as forward to in his life as her answer.

When she didn't answer, he tried again, his expression still friendly, still alien to her. "C'mon now…surely ye don't want us calling ye 'girl' for the rest of yer life? We got to have _something_ to call ye."

It was a wonder she hadn't forgotten her name by now. All those years…and she'd only been addressed by her name once—maybe twice. But maybe it had been the simple act of remembering her name—her _real_ name—that had kept her alive…kept her sane.

She found his hand extended out to her. "They call me Clanker." He said, still waiting, still looking at her with that strangely pleasant look in his dark, shadowed eyes.

Another moment—one of so many that had passed, one of many to come—moved in silence. And then a pale hand, slender with long and delicate fingers, lifted and set down in his broad palm, rough with the barnacles latched to the skin, but still a touch she found comforting.

"Lena," she whispered, "My name is Lena."


	3. Respect

**A/N: I finally have an update for my exceedingly patient readers. I once again apologize for the ridiculous delay and hope you will equally patient with me in your wait for the next chapter. Don't forget to leave a little review on your way out. Thank you kindly.**

"**Respect" defined – to feel or show deferential regard for; to avoid violation of or interference with. However one defines **_**respect**_**, the truth still remains that respect cannot be demanded or forced. Respect must be earned.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any affiliated character, only my personal characters and my plot.**

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**Chapter 3: Respect**

A brisk morning chill teased her pale curls, carefully drawing Lena out of a sleep that had been empty but restful—an odd but pleasant occurrence. Her eyes remained closed for the moment, preferring to blindly take stock of her surroundings. It was quiet around and above her—the other crewmen must not be awake yet. Her ears tuned in to any proof that would affirm this suspicion, and found it soon after in the heavy, rumbling snores echoing throughout the room. This meant she would need to be careful in the process of rising and moving up to the deck—she didn't suppose they would be the most understanding of creatures if rudely awakened.

Something heavy and rough was covering her, stretching from her shoulders to her feet. Curious thing…she was certain there hadn't been anything over her when she'd gone to bed. Or had she done so, and simply could not recall in the fog of first awakening…?

Her eyes finally consented to open, looking down the line of her body to find some kind of material draped over her body—burlap, perhaps…or maybe some kind of animal hide? It was far too thick and weighted to be made of the cotton and silk which she'd dressed herself in. It was slightly damp—not that there was a great deal of material on this ship that had not come into contact with water some way or another—but it was still warm, and she found herself entertaining the act of simply curling herself down beneath this covering and returning to sleep. Or at least remain silent and motionless until she would be called up with the rest of the crew.

_Chink. Chink. Chink._

Her ears perked up, catching the familiar sound from up above. Carefully, making sure to not upset anything around her and disturb the peace, she pushed the heavy cloth down to her feet, folding it as neatly as possible—an old habit formed over the years, one of many. Then she moved on silent feet for the stairs, climbing the short distance to the deck. Her eyes scanned the surrounding area for a short time before finding her fellow crewman at the rail.

Her arrival on deck had not escaped his notice. "Morning, lass." Clanker said with a tip of his hat and a pleasant smile. "Sleep well?"

She answered with a quiet nod, fingers brushing a few loose curls from her eyes. The clouds lingered above them, pale and lifeless without the sun's light—though she doubted there would be any sun this day. If anything, she suspected there would be rain before night had fallen.

"Lass," Clanker's voice brought her attention away from the skies, "I know it doesn't look like the friendliest of days, but that's no reason to keep that smile of yer's away from the world."

She stared at him, carefully absorbing his words for a long moment. Her mind tried to recollect any kind of moment when she had been invited—no, _requested_ to smile, for anyone or anything. She could think of no such moment. There were plenty of other things she'd been _requested_ to do—the word meaning she hadn't a choice in the matter—but smile was not one of them. Of course, she couldn't ever remember having a reason to smile, even if someone _had_ asked her to do so.

She thought that perhaps she might like it. Of course, she had learned over the last two days that there was probably a great deal he could say to her, ask of her, or tease her with, and she would like it—very much so, in fact.

"I do believe you have been without female company far too long, Mr. Clanker." She answered, a smile playing at the corners of her soft mouth. "To be asking a child to smile for you, just because she is female."

"Oh, now, lass…let's not be insulting about this." he lifted the brim of his hat to throw her a wink, "If all I wanted was some female company, I'd pay attention to more than just that smile of yer's. As it stands…I just happen to like seeing ye smile. Makes me think I can give ye something to smile about."

Lena shook her head slowly, reaching to tuck a few strands behind her ear. "You shouldn't doubt yourself, Mr. Clanker." She murmured quietly, "Your company is more than enough reason for me to smile. Only forgive me if I don't do it very often." Her eyes turned back to the waves, lolling steadily over one another in broken lines of white foam. "I have never had too much to smile about."

"Not quite the carefree, idle years of childhood, hmm?"

"Hardly." Her response was quiet, with a strange darkness seeping into her tone, "I haven't been a _child_ for years."

He paused, considering her words for a long moment. "Would part of that happen to be related to the _private matters_ the captain had ye tend to?" he inquired quietly, a soft tone to keep this discussion away from wandering ears.

Lena seemed to appreciate his discretion, for what it was worth, at least. She did not respond, but he doubted it really merited a response. If the presence of a young girl—one who was barely out of the realm of "childhood"—didn't say enough, her words to the captain upon their first meeting should have made her _purpose_ on the ship perfectly clear. Her hands slowly slipped around to cradle her shoulders, eyes downcast to the lapping waves.

"How long were ye with him?" Clanker asked, idly cleaning a blade. It couldn't be for any real purpose other than keeping him occupied while awaiting her answer; the blade looked as though it had been cleaned yesterday.

"As long as I can remember." She said at length, absently running a loose curl through her fingers, "I have very few memories of my past…but what I can remember begins with the Master." Another pause followed, then she gave a bitter smile and added, before he could ask, "I was five when training began. Two years later, he called me to his private chambers."

"Sounds like a charming bloke…" her companion muttered, shaking his head. She felt a surge of satisfaction at his apparent disgust. No one had ever shared her contempt before.

Lena lifted her arms slowly, stretching them to the skies and banishing any further exhaustion or weariness. Though she could not be sure of the time without the sun hovering in the sky to serve as an indicator, she could recall easily from her time aboard the Master's ship that the crew would be summoned on deck very soon. She would not be called out for something as minor as sleep deprivation.

"Here," Clanker offered her some dried fish meat, "Tastes a bit better this way than it does fresh from the net…least I think so." He added with a light shrug, "Ye might not want to take my advice on everything though…could get ye in trouble."

The light and pleasant air between them suddenly fell heavy; she was half-expecting to hear it shatter across the deck. Clanker had abruptly straightened up and made for a bucket located nearby. He hastily pressed it into her hands and nodded to the wooden boards below. Perhaps it was a sad testament to the kind of obedience that had been engrained in her, displayed in the way she quickly took the bucked and dropped to her knees. She was ready by the time he handed her two small rags, and quickly moved to scrub. Her questions could wait for later, if they weren't already answered by the sound of a door opening.

Her eyes discretely lifted before falling back down to her work. Earlier, she had privately wondered whether her eyes had deceived her, or if those distinct etchings in the wood of the ship were actually the foundations of a doorway. Having found a large plank of wood ajar, leading to what appeared to be nothing but a dark, empty room, she found her curiosity sated.

Clanker was hunched over the rail, his blade in one hand, a narrow and round bit of metal in the other. The distinctly shrill _hiss_ of metal running against metal was especially familiar to her, though it no longer burned her ears as it once had. The look on his face, from what she could see with nothing more than a stolen glance, was one of extreme concentration. He either had decided that now would be a splendid time to start sharpening the knife, or he was a master at feigning intense focus. She suspected it to be the latter.

Footsteps, heavy yet uncovered, moved closer to both of them. Dismissing a brief bout with curiosity, she maintained her focus. It was easy enough to do; whoever had cleaned this deck last had not done the most stellar of jobs—not that she was fool enough to openly say it.

"I trust you're keeping yourself occupied, Clanker?"

She fought down a shiver at the cold hiss wrapped around every word. It was not the first time she had heard this voice—at least five times since joining the crew, she had heard him call out orders to the crewmen in that same tone—but it seemed his was a voice that never failed to intimidate. Even she who had been addressed by all manner of tones could not deny the fear that lingered over her senses just from hearing his voice and being in his presence. Only the fact that his attention was not directed at her brought some relief.

"Aye," her companion answered, and the shrill echo ceased, undoubtedly due to him straightening up and maintaining some eye contact with the first mate, "Just doing a bit of maintenance. Thought I'd give the girl a break from the cannons. Her arms need time to heal, or she'll be of no use to anybody."

Now she felt his gaze turn to her, and the icy intensity of his stare struck her clean to the bone. For the first time since setting foot on the _Dutchman_, she was unsure of what to do. Would it be proper to continue working, or did she need to demonstrate respect and look him in the eye? She highly doubted she would be able to do so, and averting her eyes would have been a sign of weakness. Weakness, most assuredly, was _not_ something she wished to demonstrate in front of someone like him.

Carefully, she straightened, sitting back on her heels while she twisted the rag out into the bucket. Deliberately (yet discretely) she turned her arms in the direction necessary to expose her numerous cuts and scrapes, all of them battle wounds from her fight with the barnacles that she'd endured over the last few days. Most of them were exceptionally red and inflamed, looking more like infected welts. Salt water seemed to be doing the trick, but it was a slow healing process. If she could find any kind of wrappings to bind her arms and protect the skin, she would be perfectly capable of returning to the cannons. As it were…that wouldn't be possible.

"Fine," he finally answered, sounding indifferent to the whole matter (she wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or concerned), "Just so long as she's kept busy."

"I'll be sure to keep her at work." Clanker returned quietly. She felt his eyes linger on her briefly in what she imagined to be an apologetic expression.

"See that you do." He hissed, "She's in your charge now…so be sure you don't fall short."

The footsteps drew away, pausing at the open hatch leading down below. A loud, harsh summons shattered the previously tranquil morning. She could hear a great ordeal of scuffling and rushing beneath her knees. Another brief shiver trickled through her veins. A voice like that could have frightened the Devil clean out of his fiery throne.

As the deck became crowded with the rest of the crew—most of them still half-asleep—she felt free to lift her head and stretch the decidedly sore muscles aching in her neck from being trapped in that subservient position. Clanker crouched down beside her, offering a hand, which she accepted, and pulling her upright. "Sorry about that, lass…" he sighed, "Trust me though, the last thing ye want is to be idle when _he_'s around."

Lena looked around the deck for a moment, though she needn't have looked as intently as she did. With his particular features, he was the easiest one to identify, even among this crew. Twisting the rag out again, this time over the rail, she leaned closer to Clanker. "Does he have a name other than 'sir'," she whispered, "Or is that the only thing he _wants_ to be called?"

The barnacle-covered sailor chuckled under his breath. "No, he's got one…we just don't use it too much. His name's Maccus. Been with the captain about as long as the rest of us…maybe a little longer." he looked as though he were trying to calculate the exact years before shrugging it off and continuing, "He was here when I joined this lot. Didn't look like he'd been here longer than a year, but he was already the captain's right-hand mate."

Lena's brow rose exceptionally high on her face. "After only a year?" she asked. The Master's first mate had only been selected after five years of service. To have climbed the ranks to first mate after such a short time was all but unheard of.

"Aye…" Clanker nodded, "Not sure what he did to find himself in the captain's graces, but it obviously worked for him. Now, when he's talking to ye, it's 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and 'won't happen again, sir'. Trust me, lass," he added in an undertone, "the last thing ye want to do is argue with him. Got a nasty temper, he does…and ye better believe he don't carry that axe just for show." He nodded briefly, gesturing toward the broad-bladed weapon latched to the first mate's belt. She didn't need to take a second look; one was all she needed to see just how sharp he kept that blade.

Carefully, she lifted the abandoned piece of fish back to her lips, tearing into it with her teeth and relishing the taste. Only then did she realize that she had not tasted food for the better part of two days—perhaps longer. She could only presume her consistent intake of water was the reason her body hadn't completely succumbed to the consequences of food deprivation. It would very soon be necessary for her to learn how to catch her own meals. Perhaps Clanker would be willing to give her some tips.

Bucket and rags in hand, she carefully made her way across the deck. The other crew members seemed to pay her no mind, making her short journey all the more tolerable. She was hardly in the mood for the wandering eyes she had been enduring for the past few weeks. The constant leering, the poorly disguised mutterings that passed throughout the crew each time she move among them…it was old and tiresome. The only peace she seemed to get these days was during the evening hours, when most of the crew disappeared into the depths of the ship and allowed her to take refuge in the solitude of the main deck.

Not yet comfortable with crouching down on hand and knee to scrub the deck, Lena set to work on the cannons. They were far better to manage than the ones down below—the number of barnacles and other offensive sea life were considerably less than what she was accustomed to. Happy with this thought, she took the rag to the first cannon in the row. Her arms protested quietly, but she dismissed it. This was a pain with which she was all too accustomed by now, and it would pass soon enough.

She quickly finished with the first and moved to start work on the second. Already she could see a troublesome barnacle and, rather than ruin another rag, reached for a small blade lying on the rail. Careful not to damage the cannon, she managed to pry the shell off with only a small amount of trouble.

"Bored with cleaning the deck already?"

Had the question come from Clanker, she might have actually smiled and allowed herself to feel at ease. But the voice addressing her was most assuredly _not_ Clanker's, and she knew there was no chance of her seeing him once she turned around. He wasn't there to speak for her this time. And there was no chance the rest of the crew would bother to help. She was on her own.

Drawing a deep, careful breath, she turned around to find herself on eye-level with the broad span of his chest. Had the situation been different, she might have taken the time to more closely examine the odd wonder of his body, of just how the mutations so prevalent among this crew had affected him. As it was, she experienced enough difficulty lifting her head to meet his eyes. The eyes she found staring back into hers were the strangest color she'd ever seen. Black as the evening sky, hollow and empty, yet there was a distinct rim of blue encasing the black—as clear as the ocean itself.

It was terrifying…and mesmerizing.

"No," she found her voice, clenching her limbs as tight as possible and ignoring the resulting discomfort, "I simply felt my hands could be better suited elsewhere. I'm still keeping busy, as you ordered."

His eyes never left her face, the intensity of his stare boring down into her as though he were trying to dissect her very thoughts. It was strange to have a man's eyes remain solely on her face, never once straying to the rest of her body. She wasn't used to it—even Clanker's eyes were prone to wander. She did know enough to admit it frightened her.

"You're not supposed to leave Clanker's sight." He hissed quietly.

"_Be sure to keep an eye on my little pet," the Master's voice was low, dark and amused at the tight anger that etched lines into a young face, "I can't have her wandering off too far…not when I might have need of her later."_

"Your instructions were for Clanker to keep me busy, sir." She answered, anger maintaining the connection between their eyes, anger bringing strength to replace fear. "And that is just what I am doing. I do not need supervision in order to properly perform my duties. I am not a child or a mongrel pup to be kept on a short leash. Now, if there is something else you wish for me to do other than clean these cannons, tell me so."

The fingers—if they could be called that—of his left hand grasped her jaw in an unyielding hold, forcing her chin up. The strain on her neck sent dull spurts of pain through her nerves, but she held her ground. This was not the first time a man had grabbed her like this. In fact, it paled in comparison to the other ways she had been mishandled. The fact that his fingers dug into her skin, the appendages more claw-like than human digits, was meaningless.

"Mind your tongue, girl." He growled, each breath passing through his jagged teeth echoing against her ears as a cold _hiss_, remorseless and ruthless. "You will learn _respect_ on this vessel, whether you like it or not."

Lena jerked her head away from his hold. The skin of her cheeks was left torn and freshly bruised from the brutality of his grip. She blinked the pain away and returned his dark glare with an icy calm demeanor.

"I give respect to those who earn it," she whispered, "…_sir_."


	4. Fear

**A/N: My God. I would offer a thousand excuses regarding my delay in updating this story, but it all comes down to one word—Time. Time got away from me, and with it went my muses. I pray this will be a sufficient offering for my readers. I would like to personally thank those who kept on me about updating "Lovebearing Storm", and I hope to see reviews from all of you. Thank you very much and please enjoy Chapter 4.**

**Fear and Respect are two different animals, yet they descend from one parent. Hence, to distinguish between the two falls upon a thin line which is all-too easy to cross and even easier still to distort. **

* * *

**Chapter 4: Fear**

Even for one of younger years, it did not take any great length of time for Lena to learn that, should she awaken at the earliest possible hours of the morning, well before any of the other crewmen had regained consciousness, she would be afforded at least two hours of solitude before the necessary interactions needed to be made. And so, once again, she had sacrificed her need of sleep for her desire of silence and a little taste of privacy.

It was better this way, when she could be alone and not need to work along side of the others. Clanker's company was always welcome, yes, but rare were the moments when they could simply be alone. More often than not, she would be separated from him and ordered to work with one or two of the other crewmen. For the most part, they kept to themselves, only directing attention at her when it was absolutely necessary. At first, she had believed they would jump on any and all opportunities to make her life just short of miserable. Now she knew better—to think they would bother with harassing her was decidedly self-centered. She was nothing more than another face among many. More importantly, she was young, and she was a woman. Attention was hardly to be spared for _her_.

If anything, she was probably considered an inconvenience.

There was one member of the crew with whom she had encountered difficulty—a man covered in a thick layer of spikes and barnacles that designated him amongst the most imposing. Once or twice she had heard his name—_Koleniko_—but she had done little more than file it away in the far reaches of her mind. His name was one she would never be permitted to use. Much like Master's _associates_, she was not permitted to call any of the other crewmen by their name. Koleniko had made that perfectly clear only two days earlier, when she had made the foolish mistake of calling him by name—_Ye'll not be speaking to me like that, girl. Clanker may be fool enough to think ye on our level, but yer not. Remember that, or it'll be yer pretty head._

She did not need to be told by the rest just how little standing she held on this crew. All of them demanded her respect, just like the Master. Just like the first mate.

Though in the end, there was no other who demanded the same respect as _he_ did.

Lena's eyes drifted to the horizon, where a distinct gleam of sunlight was beginning to creep across the water's edge. Dawn was mere moments away, which meant her time of peace and quiet was rapidly drawing in an end. Once the sun arose, so did _he_.

It was fitting, perhaps, that the first mate should awaken not only before the rest of the crew, but before even the captain. It was entirely possible that the captain was awake long before all of them put together, as he rarely emerged from his cabin, but she found it far more likely that Maccus was the first to awaken—well, aside from herself.

She heard the door to his cabin open—the wear on the wood never failed to give a distinct _creak_, particularly in the early hours of the morning. To hear _him_ was a far different matter; so like the shark whose appearance he bore, his movements were silent, deliberate, yet never cautious. He thought nothing of approaching her when the need presented itself. She was hardly a threat to him, no more than she had been to the Master.

Even from her place high on the mast, repairing a fraying rope, she could feel the intensity of his eyes. There was little desire for her to return his attention, but to do so would have been nothing short of idiotic.

Her pale eyes turned downward, almost immediately finding his darker ones—both the human and that which was more animal than man. His instructions were silent, requiring no words be spoken for his message to be clear.

Slowly, she drew herself to an upright position and made her way toward the mast, where another rope—this one fully intact—waited, prepared to return her down below. The material was coarse against her hands, but the rough texture mattered little to her. If anything, it was nearly a relief after enduring the sharp bite of barnacles for over a month—or had it been longer? Time was more elusive than ever now, and as she slid down toward the deck, toward _him_, she considered it to be perhaps more worthwhile to no longer keep track of the days.

Time, it seemed, simply no longer existed on the _Dutchman_.

Instinct—or perhaps overly engrained habits—prompted her to take several steps back from where she initially landed before him. If he did not approve of their proximity, no doubt he would adjust her position for her, with or without consent. It would be best for both if she just saved him the trouble.

If he was pleased with the distance, he didn't show it. His right hand—the only one still retaining a human appearance—reached up for the rope she had been repairing, giving it a firm and deliberate tug. His human eye carefully examined the reaction, taking stock of the sway of the rope, unyielding and resilient to his action.

Lena remained in place, her eyes downcast to the deck. Absently, her mind registered the fading stain of blood on her bare feet, peeking out from the soles where the real injury was. The pain was nearly non-existent, allowing her to continue on with duties. At the time, of course, the pain had been excruciating. Stepping directly onto a patch of coral tends to have such consequences.

That dark eye, the rim of Caribbean blue distinctly present now, turned to her once again. "You know how to mend a line." It was not so much a question as it was a statement of fact. To have phrased it as a question would have been asinine, and she knew it.

"I know how to sew, sir." Lena replied quietly, her eyes staring straight ahead—between the narrow loop of his arm and the barnacle-covered span of his chest. "The two are not so different."

He merely blinked. "Indeed," his voice was cold as he stepped around her. Tightness crept into her muscles as he passed beyond her line of sight, not from disgust but uncertainty, an inability to discern his thoughts as he circled her. She bit down on the inside of her lip, fighting down the urge to speak.

"Seems you've found some way to make yourself useful." He said quietly. "Go then. There are others up there, all in need of your…_services_."

Almost immediately, she closed her eyes, willing them to remain closed until he had left her, until he had permitted her to be alone once again. So long as she did not have to look at him, she would be able to retain control. If she dared open her eyes, she knew there was little chance of her resisting the urge to take his throat with nothing more than her fingernails.

She released a slow, deliberate breath and opened her eyes. He was gone, and the sun had long since risen high in the sky. Down below, she could hear the crewmen beginning to ascend. Without hesitation, she moved for the mast and rapidly ascended the rope before the first man ever appeared at the hatch.

* * *

Her fingers worked quick and sure as she worked with the ropes, the material steadily burning against her palms with each motion. The pain was but a momentary consideration, pushed aside to allow concentration to remain at the forefront. She had a task to accomplish, and she would do it with perfection—nothing less.

The sun was particularly hot today, a surprising turn after the long stretch of cold rains. Wincing slightly with discomfort, she adjusted her position in the hopes of relieving the stress placed on her limbs. Stress slicked down her brow, uncomfortably warm and decidedly irritating. Finally, unable to ignore the annoyance any longer, she paused in her task to run the length of her forearm across her forehead. At last, relief…for now.

"Yer a hard one to find today, lass." Clanker's voice brought her attention to the right, where the crewman was maneuvering himself up the mast beside her. "Or did ye consider this a fine time to be alone?"

She managed to give him a small smile, but it was half-hearted at best. "I don't fancy much company today."

He paused, and she felt his gaze examining her hands. "Appears ye don't fancy much today, especially yer well-being." His barnacle-encrusted hand wrapped around her wrist, stalling the task to bring her hand closer for inspection. "Christ, lass…ye look like ye've lost a fight with a shark."

Her eye twitched slightly. "That isn't so far from the truth." She replied crisply, securing a rope with a bit more force than required. Clanker's brows lifted nearly to the brim of his hat.

"I warned ye, lass…" he said, tone lowering to a darker, more serious level than before, "_Don't_ press yer luck. Ye get on his bad side, ye won't be comin' back in one piece."

Lena only blinked. "May I presume there have been other unlucky crewmen, Clanker?" she replied with a rather condescending tone, "Poor souls who didn't bow down and give the first mate his dues?"

He frowned at her. "This is no joking manner, lass." He shook his head firmly, "Ye steer clear of him, or mark my words, he'll make ye regret it."

The final repairs finished, she stood and made her way lightly to the rigging once again, pausing only to turn back and face her fellow crewman. "I am no stranger to men who demand and are given respect solely through means of terror and physical injury, Clanker." Her voice was cold, her expression tight with anger. "I have bowed down to them for all of my life."

His frown deepened, shaking his head slowly. "For yer sake, ye'd best keep yer head down and keep bowing."

Lena shook her head. "No." she took the ropes in hand, ignoring the biting sting coming from her bloodied palms, "I have no intentions of bowing down to him. I am _not_ afraid of him."

* * *

When she next emerged from below decks, once again tending to the cannons, dusk was a short time away. Already she could see the clouds painted the wide array of color that signaled the ending of one day, just as sure as the sunrise announced the beginning of another. A pair of gulls danced above, their wings spread wide as they circled one another, over and over again in some strange ritual. Despite the harsh sound of their little melody, there was something still entrancing about the whole spectacle.

It was a mating dance. The kind of dance every animal and human being alike engages in once they have found their soul mate, the one to whom they will forever belong from now until death should part them.

It was the stuff of fairytales. Nothing more than the dreams of fools.

Behind her, a pair of crewmen moved below deck, rusted bottles of rum clutched in their hands. Their speech was already slurred, and she was sure it would only decline for the remainder of the night until their coherent abilities were completely diminished. Vaguely, she wondered how they could possibly stand to drink so much in such little time. But then again, what else did they have to do at night?

Clanker was on watch tonight, but instead of joining him she opted to remain at the rail, vacantly admiring the sunset. She had never held the same respect for the dawn, not when it only served as a reminder that a new day was beginning—and with it, either uncertainty or cruelty. Sometimes, a new day was filled with a wretched mix of the both—unpredictable cruelty.

That had been her life for ten years. Unpredictable. Cruel.

And here she was now, a fourteen year-old girl with nothing left of herself—nothing but a name. A name given to her by parents of whom she held no memory. A name used but three times in her lifetime, and even here it was not to be used. She was not "Lena" but "girl". She was an object, a tool with one purpose and one alone: to be obedient.

This was not a new life. It was simply another prison.

The familiar sensation of being watched seeped into her conscious, but this was not Clanker's curious gaze or the lecherous viewings of another crewman. The gaze was far too intense, far more piercing than any other's. And even now, merely two months after swearing her soul to this ship, she knew it was only one time of many that she would be the subject of this gaze.

She slowly consented to face him, standing there just outside the captain's quarters—a place to which only he and a few others were permitted entry. Curiosity had not yet beseeched her to wonder what it was like, this seemingly sacred and hallowed place deep within the _Dutchman_'s core. She prayed it would remain this way. Curiosity, she knew, was capable of killing far more than a harmless little cat.

* * *

Lena was hardly stranger to the dangers of swimming in shark-infested waters. She had often listened to the tales that Master and his crew told, and she'd seen the various scars etched into their bodies where flesh had been forcibly removed, torn away by the rows of razor-sharp teeth. Each scar and every tale had been marked by one distinct memory—the eyes. Each man had spoken, always in a hushed tone, of what it was like to look straight in dark, empty eyes as they fought for their lives. To look into the eyes of a shark, they had whispered, was to look into the eyes of the devil himself.

But she saw no devil here, only a being mutated and transformed by the sea itself, by the curse he had brought upon himself, body and soul. At one point in time, she knew he must have been a man, appearing just as human as herself.

But no longer.

In the fading light of day, she could only barely discern his expression. What little she could see of him centered on his right eye, the only one that still retained a humane appearance. It seemed to speak far more than words ever could, and though she might be loathe to admit it, she admired the intensity of his eye. It made her wonder, ever so briefly, if his eyes had always been this way, even when he was human.

She closed her eyes, forcing these notions away, out of thought and out of mind. When she reopened them, she was no longer alone.

Truly, she noted, he had all the stealth of the sharks. Only creatures such as they could move with such swift deliberation, all without ever being detected by their prey. It made them masterful hunters, ultimate predators.

"You finished your task." Again, he phrased nothing as a question. Likewise, Master never asked questions, only demanded answers. And he demanded answers with all due speed, else there would be terrible consequences to be paid.

"As I was instructed, sir." Lena answered quietly, meeting his smoldering gaze without so much as a blink. Within the cavern of her chest, the heart was beating wildly—an unfortunate reaction which she could not yet control. Yet still her gaze did not falter. She would not show fear upon her face, even if her body could not yet master such resilience.

He took a step forward; she held her ground. His eye never left her face, never venturing down even to her throat. And once again, she felt the discomfort of having a man solely interested in her face, showing no interest in her body whatsoever. He had far greater control over his emotions than the others. So much so, in fact, that she wondered if he still possessed any emotions to control.

He finally spoke, and she knew he was displeased. "You still have yet to show respect," he spoke quietly, the words passing through his protruding teeth in little more than a hiss, "I suggest you learn it very quickly, understand?"

Lena finally allowed herself to blink, her stance relaxing ever so slightly as the faintest traces of a smile curled her lips. "You say…_respect_? Is that what you think this is then, sir? Threatening those subservient to you with physical harm, with violence, with injuries far worse than even those conceived in nightmares…you think it is _respect_ that they give you? You think it's out of _respect_ that they cower before you, rush to do that which you demand of them, never questioning one word that passes your lips?"

She paused, her lips curling all the more as she shook her head. "That, _sir_, is not respect. It's _**fear**_."

Another moment passed in silence while she watched him stiffen, his mouth twisting in a snarl, his teeth bared all the more. There was no mistaking his resemblance to the beast whose features time had given him. He was no longer a man, but an animal, devoid of all emotion save perhaps anger.

"If that it what you demand of me," Lena continued, her anger finally spilling over to conquer what little fear still remained within, "then kindly just call it what it is. You don't want me to respect you. You don't want me to revere you or admire you as a worthy figure of authority. You want me to _fear_ you."

Stepping away from the rail, cold defiance still present in her stance, she paused only briefly to look back at him. He did not return the favor.

"Make no mistake, _sir_," she whispered, "I will do neither. You demand fear and call it respect, just as the Master did. I neither feared nor respected the Master, and I will neither fear nor respect you—not so long as there is even the tiniest trace of _him_ that I can find in _you_."


	5. Control

**A/N: Since my readers have been patiently waiting for an update on this story, I decided to post this one since it was already finished and ready for reviewing. I apologize in advance for the cliffhanger that everyone will be left on at the end of chapter 5, but as I posted on my profile page, I will not be posting any additional chapters of this story until it is fully completed to my satisfaction. Again, I apologize for the wait. I can only hope the final result will be well worth the extensive wait. Please enjoy chapter 5, and thank you again for your patience.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Control**

The sharp lick of fire sprang to life, illuminating the underside of the captain's transformed jaw. Orange light streaked along the writhing tentacles descending from his face. The fire smoldered briefly in the pit of his pipe, igniting the contents within before being discarded. Davy Jones leaned backwards, the curve of his spine resting against the keyboard of his organ as he took a long draw from his pipe. Releasing the smoke through the siphon extending from his left cheek, he looked again upon his first mate, standing there with a scowl firmly etched into an already down-turned mouth.

"She keeps to herself," Jones said calmly, "Head down, voice soft…she does as she's told, when she's told. I fail to see the problem." A moment's pause followed while he took another draw from his pipe, "Perhaps ye wish to enlighten me?"

Maccus' jaw clenched further, his eye narrowing. "She is a stubborn, insolent, reckless child who won't follow the rules, let alone show respect to her superiors."

The captain nodded thoughtfully, though he hardly looked convinced. "I haven't heard any such complaints from the crew." He commented quietly.

The scowl already present on his mouth deepened, the deadly curve of his teeth bared all the more. "I assure you, sir, she has little conception of how to respect anyone or anything." He said, his voice unpleasantly low, "Simply because Clanker chooses to overlook her insubordinate behavior does not mean the rest of us do."

A third draw and exhale released a long stream of thin smoke. "And this has absolutely nothing to do with her knack for getting under yer skin, does it?" the corners of his lipless mouth curled knowingly, "The rest of the crew has been talking as of late…"

"The rest of the crew," Maccus replied in a decidedly clipped tone, "would do well to mind both their eyes _and_ their tongues, lest they lose them in any unfortunate accidents."

Jones merely smiled, nodding slowly. "The point still remains…I've yet to hear any true complaint regarding Miss Lena's work. She's quiet and obedient—"

"—for now." The other interjected quietly, "We know little about her, Captain. What do we know of her past—other than her _private matters_?"

A pause, "What point are ye driving at?"

"Our lack of knowledge is a liability—and so is she, by not divulging anything to anyone."

"Allow the girl to keep her secrets, Maccus." Jones replied quietly, firmly meeting his first mate's gaze. "Would ye like to have the crew knowing all about _yer_ past?"

A dark shadow passed over his expression, an unspoken and unbidden memory daring to dart from its confines before being abruptly crushed down and pocketed away with little more than a tight grimace of the mouth. All the same, his silence proved answer enough for the captain.

"I'm not yet keen on letting her go." Jones stated, extinguishing his pipe with a casual gesture. "She still has her uses, and until I see otherwise, I'll keep deeming her fit to serve here."

If a response was intended to follow, it was swiftly interrupted by a shout outside the cabin door. Both captain and first mate quickly moved out on deck, where the crew was already assembled. Thoughts of insubordinate females and dark secrets of the past were disregarded for the nearby remnants of a ship—most likely a merchant ship—lying impaled upon a convergence of rock and reef. The waves beat up against the wreckage, seeming to exaggerate the jagged rip that had severed the vessel in half. Masts and torn sails stretched lifelessly from the shifting waves like disembodied limbs.

Jones barely blinked. His attention instead was focused on the youngest member of his crew, standing apart from the others against the rail where she was trying to mend a rag—she had probably just finished washing the deck. Her eyes were downcast, sparing no attention for the ravaged ship or the enthused murmurings of her fellow crewmen. No doubt she had no anticipation of being called to participate in the customary activities.

A moment passed, all waiting for the captain's orders. And he indulged every passing second of silence, for time was a grand luxury. He had no fear of any man escaping what remained of the ship, and even less of some foolhardy sailor playing cheap heroics and attempting to fight against Fate's ever-present hand. Finally, the silence was broken as he once more directed attention to his first mate.

"Ye know what to do." He addressed Maccus quietly, turning his head toward him ever so slightly, "And take the girl."

"You think she's ready, sir?" there could be no doubt that if that was indeed the captain's opinion, his first mate did not share it. Even from the mere corner of his eye, Jones could see Maccus pass a scrutinizing glare over the girl's small figure and distant expression.

"Only one way to find out." The captain replied smoothly, "Unless, of course, ye object."

Both men knew there would be no objections made—not aloud. Releasing a slow sigh, Maccus nodded and called out his orders to the crew. They immediately sprang into action, swiftly descending upon the ship in a matter of seconds. Assisted by Clanker, Lena joined them, her expression impassive and strangely calm even in the surprise of being summoned for such a task.

Perhaps she was too calm.

Jones turned back to his first mate, expression solemn. "Keep an eye on her."

* * *

The ship's survivors—few though they appeared to be—were hardly difficult to find. The symphony of gasps and horrified moans that rang out on deck were all-too identifiable, and the crewmen were quick to seize them all without precedent. There was no job for Lena to do, no task to undertake, save to watch…and perhaps learn for future reference.

She was completely out of place here. Why it was necessary for her to even be here was anyone's guess—hers and the rest of the crew's. Her greatest challenge thus far had been to locate a small corner of the splintered deck where she would prove no hindrance for the others.

Clanker's eyes swept over the trembling line of soldiers, taking note of who was _not_ present. "The captain's missing." He said.

"Send the girl to find him." A voice called out—a low and gravelly voice, belonging to a crewman with a complexion composed solely of coral. She thought perhaps his name was Palifico, but she would hardly dare assume her guess to be accurate. The crew blended together in a mass of distorted flesh and barnacle-encrusted limbs, and even if he had looked remarkably different from the others, the crewmen rarely called each other by name. And the few times they did address each other, she couldn't help but wonder which names were given at birth and which were simply earned titles. "Clanker" couldn't possibly have been said crewman's Christian name, yet still she knew him by no other. Perhaps the name was simply one of the many things a sailor slowly lost abroad the cursed vessel.

"Aye," another agreed, mouth curled in an obvious sneer, "Let her prove herself _useful_ for once."

A chorus of laughter rang out with his words, echoing in her ears and in the back of her mind as though their laughter was the thrumming beat of a drum. Her fist clenched tight, tightly, tighter until she could feel something hot seeping down through her enclosed fingers—blood.

The first mate's imposing and overshadowing figure suddenly stood before her, his gaze burning down into the base of her skull. After a brief moment, drawing in a deep breath to compose herself, she lifted her head to meet his eyes. She vaguely wondered if he ever blinked.

"Go find the captain." Maccus instructed quietly. "Now."

Lena swallowed back an uncivilized response, forcing herself to nod. "Yes, sir." She answered in an cool whisper, turning away from the others to venture down below decks. She could feel his gaze burning into her back, watching her every move like the predator observes its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The others were paying her no mind, their focus all for the prisoners and not the little tramp sent off to comply with irrefutable commands.

Their laughter was still ringing in her ears.

* * *

Compared to the abhorrent symphony above, the lower decks were unsettlingly quiet; only the waves' rhythmic blows echoed throughout the tattered planks. Occasionally, her attention was diverted from the preferred sight of turquoise waters dancing beneath cloud-tinged skies to the dangerously uneven floorboards. Sidestepping one plank in particular which had been severed so effectively that it was uprooted at a violent angle, she found herself at the intricately carved doorway of what she could only presume to be the captain's quarters. One of the two doors had been shaken nearly off its foundations, hanging limply by the single hinge to which clung desperately. Inside, she could see the gaping holes and shattered window frames scattered throughout the impressively sized cabin. At her bare feet lay a mess of books, once perhaps kept in pristine condition but now damaged by the vast pools of water which lay collected across the floor. Carefully, for the moment forgetting her task in light of curiosity, she knelt to lift one book from the others. Its words were blurred and its pages torn, but she seemed to make out some foreign tongue—perhaps French?

Erratic mutterings suddenly caught her attention, and the book was dropped back without much additional regard as she carefully moved throughout the flood cabin, eyes watchful and alert. Curled up against the far corner in a protective stance was a man tattered and disheveled. It was only then that she happened to wonder just how long this ship had been left to the questionable mercy of the waves; the man appeared as though he hadn't employed proper hygiene techniques in a number of days. But his eyes were unpleasantly bright, wild with delirium as he caught sight of her standing a few feet away.

"A woman!" he exclaimed at the novelty of such a being in his presence. On unsteady feet he began to rise, and she immediately felt an averse reaction to him doing so. His movements were unpredictable; already she could see the emergence of madness upon his face, and her unease only grew as he stumbled toward her considerably faster than really necessary.

"A woman, a woman…no, no, no!" he shook his head furiously, "I'll have no woman on my ship! Bad luck, bad luck—bad luck the lot of them! A plague upon my ship and crew!"

She thought to answer, strived for some appropriate response, but before such a feat could be accomplished there was a furious blow sent across her cheek. The water churned angrily at the disturbance brought on by her stumbling feet; it was only barely that she managed to keep herself upright. The thought to cry for help passed only fleetingly through her mind; she would never hear the end of taunting laughter if she cried out for aid now. Perhaps if she simply calmed him down—

"A plague, a plague!" he was raving with gesturing hands, "You've brought my ship to ruin, you leech! This is your doing!"

She shook her head, extending her hands in a hopeful gesture of peace. "Stand down, sir…" her voice shook even when she willed it to be strong.

"I'll have no woman order me upon my own vessel!" he was nearly wailing, and it would hardly be long before his obscene ranting caught the attention of the others. Lest she allow such a thing, Lena dared to move closer, hoping to grasp his shoulder and physically restrain him even when she knew her strength was useless here.

Her fingers incidentally brushed his shoulder, and then her hand was caught in an unyielding hold that abruptly brought her to the floor. There was a dull ache as her small figure struck the rough planks, but her greater concern was for the body looming over hers with madness in his eyes. And then cold hands were upon her partially-bared shoulders, forcing her down into water and upon wood without further regard. Words came without sense or coherency, only the distinct curses of "whore" and "filth" audible to her ears.

"_On your back, whore!" calloused hands with thick fingers left a bruising imprint as they forced her upon unpaved stone floors, "Let us see what lessons you've learned."_

His hands were thick and strong, crushing down upon her shoulders and bruising her clavicle. Groping fingers inched close—too close—to her throat…already she felt the pressure upon her airway—

_A squirming figure was crushed beneath the sheer weight of muscle and fat, and a cruel bought of laughter rumbled forth as she continued to fight a battle which was already lost. "A free spirit trying to flutter away from her master," a soft cry as his left hand met her pale cheek in a vicious blow, "We'll have to do something about that."_

Disheveled clothes and a body starved of food and nutrients knelt upon her small waist, forcing air past her trembling lips without a hope of ever being returned. He was spitting upon her face, mocking her efforts to break free as though it were all an amusing little parlor game—

"_Fight on, fight on, little spirit!" he was laughing and he would not stop laughing even as she cried out in protest, fighting to keep tears of pain from streaking down her bruised cheeks, "Fight on and see how far your courage takes you. Fight, fight!"_

"Fight on, witch!" fleeting coherency returned her to his words with a cruel irony, "Fight on all you like! You'll never take me as you took my ship! Fight me! Fight me, damn you!"

"_Fight little spirit! Fight! Fight! Fight!"_

He never thought to watch for her hand—how could small hands pose any danger to a man such as he?—only becoming aware of it as sharp nails cut into a disheveled jaw, blood coming to smear and blend with the dark traces of mud left upon his skin. It was a startling blow more than a truly harmful one, but it granted enough leniency in his stance for her to wriggle free and crawl back onto her own feet. She should have run back to the others and sought help, no matter the humiliation.

But he wanted a fight, didn't he? This broken shell of a man wanted a fight, wanted a timid little spirit to fight for her life, to reclaim it as her own with all the fury of any proper man. He told her to fight, encouraged her to fight, _demanded_ that she fight, fight, _**fight**_!

* * *

A quivering mass of bruised flesh and folded limbs knelt down in a uniform line, all survivors present save for one. It was quite possible that the captain had met his fate upon the rocky shore, but guesswork was intolerable. All possible avenues were to be thoroughly investigated before any conclusions were drawn, and if the captain was indeed nowhere to be found on this ship, it should have already been reported.

Maccus possessed no pocket watch—he was hardly an upstanding member of society with enough wealth to own such a trinket—but he did not need to see tiny hands and telltale numbers to know that more than enough time had passed for the girl to adequately search the ship and report the captain's whereabouts and state of being. And surely she was not so mentally incapable that she'd managed to lose herself below decks. This was not an elaborate vessel of the Royal Navy, where such a mishap might have been acceptable. Its design was basic and mediocre, and there could only be so many places where a grown man might stow himself away in hopes of passing unnoticed. She should have returned by now.

The captain did not appear to share his first mate's blatant unease, his attention solely focused on the trembling mass before him, posing the infamous question before each and every doomed soul. None had offered the damning words yet—one had blatantly refused, two others appeared beyond capability to form so much as a nod, let alone speak the answer aloud.

And still there was no sign of the girl.

The fingers of his right hand thrummed impatiently against the handle of his axe, eyes discretely perusing all possible entrances where she might suddenly appear. Of course, he knew he was a damned fool to think she might pop out of some utterly random gap in the planks like a curious little eel. More so, he was a damned fool to be looking around for her like some love-struck suitor who simply couldn't wait to sweep her off to the nearest chapel.

Unbidden, the thought occurred to him that she probably hadn't the faintest inkling what it meant to be courted and pursued by a love-struck suitor.

He shook off such absurd fancies and tried to maintain his usual focus and concentration when such things seemed intent on eluding him. Of the six survivors, only two more remained to decide their fate—as though they weren't destined for damnation one way or another. The other crewmen seemed utterly oblivious to the girl's absence, seeming more inclined to leer at the survivors and practically lick their lips for the precise moment when their blades would taste flesh and blood once again. Maccus privately scowled at their ignorance, and were the captain's attention not otherwise occupied he might have silently experienced just as much frustration. Was he the only man competent enough to remember that the girl was in fact a member of the crew, and as such she was bound by certain rules that would be followed without exception? If each and every one of them did not follow the rules to the letter, the crew would cease to—

His head abruptly swung in place, sharply jerking to face the darkened corridor which led to the ship's lower quarters. He heard no screams or other such expulsions of noise. He saw no shapes moving about in the darkness. He felt no unfriendly presence lurking about on deck to offer any threat or confrontation. But he smelled something—something powerful and sharp lingering on the winds that overpowered even the distinct burn of salty waters. He drew in a deliberate breath, inhaling as much of the bitterly metallic scent as possible. All at once, the source became vividly apparent to his heightened senses—the one blessing that could be found in the abundant curses set upon his body and soul. Without regard for the others, forsaking even some reprimand from the captain should his abrupt exit be noticed, he moved for the hatch and vanished into the shadows with the overpowering scent of spilt blood to guide him.

* * *

Rage was a bitter emotion—a double-edged sword, a deal with the devil that brought as many consequences as it did rewards. To contain such a potent feeling within one's heart and never permit it to arise even in the private solitude of an empty room was dangerous, perhaps even more so than to freely allow the anger to run free without regard. Rage knew how to inflict the most damage when trapped, grating against the nerves with the tenderness of a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth, constantly pressing for release over and over again and growing only more insistent the longer it faced imprisonment within the soul.

But to release every drop of pent-up rage came at its own cost, perhaps one far more deadly and detrimental than the consequence of containing the furious anger. Yes, there was a sense of release as her small hands ripped and tore at vulnerable flesh with all the constraint of a ravenous beast. When the feel of hot blood slicking across her fingers should have brought repulsion, there was only a vindictive sense of triumph. So much of her own blood had been spilt by the hands of lesser men; so often her body had been mercilessly bound and beaten, degraded, and abused without even the slightest hint of concern for what damage such cruelty would inflict on a malleable mind and a heart that broke with each new offense. Nothing was known of her suffering, and there were none to care for the extent of her rage and hatred.

She had learned so quickly in life that tears only brought more pain, that freely expressing her grief and suffering brought more injustices. Little could be done to protect her body from the primal desires of animals who paraded around on two feet and dared call themselves men, but wounds would heal in due time—either by her hands or the hands of Time, all wounds to the flesh would heal. And so it was far better to survive in a sheet of ice, to cocoon her heart and soul within an arctic barrier that could not be penetrated without a vicious desire to do so, and she knew her captors' interest had always been for her body and nothing more. So long as her heart remained protected, she could play her part with minimal tears, enduring the abuse and then crawling away to regain some vestige of her pride.

But the glacial protection around her heart was only designed to shield softer emotions—grief, regret, shame, pain, sorrow. It was useless to contain the hatred she felt for each and every suffering, each new injury bringing with it a fresh wave of rage that only accumulated with its fellows until it set her blood aflame with little more than a carelessly offered word or gesture. Control had been her ally thus far, keeping her temper under check and enabling her ears to ignore the crude statements of her fellow crewmen. But by God, this fool had challenged her! He wanted her to fight him and prove herself worthy of holding life within her body as though it were his right alone and never hers. His insolent words would be his last—she cared nothing if he lived or died, only that he never again be able to throw such abhorrent words against her ears. He could heal physically as she had so often before; all the mattered was the irrefutable injury which he would carry with him for the rest of his misbegotten days!

There were no words to serve as warning, and the blood rushing hot and fast through her ears rendered her deaf to all else transpiring around her. Undoubtedly, a full-fledged riot could have broken out above decks and she would have heard none of it. Later she would curse herself for permitting rage to distract her and render her helpless to the arms suddenly taking hold of her from behind. Instinct demanded that she continue to fight, and so she did, thrashing furiously with wordless protests and violent gestures from her bloodied hands. Her abductor feared nothing from her rage, considered her threats meaningless and trivial against his strength. Her left arm was twisted violently and brought to rest against her spine, pinned there by a cold hand while another arm—this one bearing little resemblance to a human limb—pressed firmly to the hollow of her throat. Rage was bypassed in the pressing need to breathe without obstruction, but no leniency could be found until she reluctantly settled in his binding hold, still trembling with hatred as she cast a remorseless glare upon the figure feebly stirring upon the planks.

"Damned fool," Maccus snarled against her ear, feeling a ghosting satisfaction as she shuddered away from his voice. Offering no regard for the man's well-being, he dragged her back through the shadowy halls and onto the deck. If his sudden departure had attracted little attention, his return was the subject of immediate interest—particularly, if not exclusively, the captain's attention. For the moment he offered no explanations but instead kept a vice grip on her arm, releasing her throat only to better utilize his left hand and bring them both back upon the _Dutchman_'s deck. His hold was dangerously close to shattering her bones, yet even as he spared her a look in search of discomfort or tearful protests, he found nothing but resentment and fury smoldering within her alien-colored eyes.

Jaw clenched tight, he barked out a summons for the boatswain; the coral-encrusted figure eagerly shuffled forward, fingers already caressing his treasured weapon as he observed the girl writhing against Maccus' hold. Again without a warning, he hurled her forward at the boatswain's feet. Her discomfort was evident as her bruised limb struck unyielding wood, but she offered no complaint or cry even when hauled back onto her feet by Jimmylegs.

"We have a fiery spirit among us, boatswain," Maccus hissed quietly, training his gaze on the thick curtain shielding her face from his eyes. Displeased, he reached out to bring her chin forcibly upright, breaking the colorless veil to reveal a face white with anger, mouth set and eyes hardened as she met his gaze without so much as a blink.

He did not bother to fully consider why he sought her face now; history proved he was not to be moved by tearful pleas for mercy or pity. All that mattered was her refusal to relinquish a remarkably insistent hold on her anger, no matter what consequences might await her. In any other circumstance, he might have entertained an intrigue for her defiance. How long and hard did the fires within her soul truly burn…?

He dismissed such thoughts with a purposeful blink, scowl once again set in place as he looked to the boatswain's malicious grin, "Give our little spirit a lesson in managing her temper."

* * *

Never before had the _Dutchman_'s depths felt so cold, or perhaps it was simply a section of this cursed ship that held more torment within its walls than the rest. She might have expected such barrenness from the brig, but it was not to rusted bars that the boatswain dragged her. It was well past the brig, to some secluded little corner at the farthest reaches of the ship that held little trace of life—even the multitude of sea life that thrived so abundantly upon this ship did not exist in great numbers here, as though this was a place incapable of sustaining even the smallest traces of life.

It was with a well-placed but careless gesture that her dress was wrenched apart from behind; the boatswain cared not for cloth and garment but for the skin that lay beneath it. The terrified child stirred from the deepest recesses of her heart, seeking to draw the cloth back around her exposed flesh and prevent the cruelty which was to come.

She felt his eyes hungrily tracing over her pale flesh, and a moment later his encrusted fingers came to rest at the base of her spine. The gash in her dress clung desperately to the few threads which preserved modesty past the faint curve of her hips, and apparently discontent with such, the boatswain jerked the dress apart once again, freeing the garment to hang low at her elbows and expose her back in its entirety.

Her hands tightened against the beaten planks of the wall where she'd narrowly broken her fall, and it seemed this was where he preferred her to be for he gave no command to the contrary. The cold handle of his cat o' nine tails dragged along the back of her neck, pushing her hair over one shoulder. He was patient, having all the time in the world to carry out his ordered task, and his delay was cruelty in and of itself. She had seen him lash the other crewmen in the mere blink of an eye, never demonstrating such patience. No doubt he wanted this to be, for want of a better word, special.

"Ye know…" his voice made her blood run cold, a low and ravenous tone with his bloodlust dripping from every word, "Me thinks Maccus has taken a fancy to ye. He's never told me to give a special lesson to anyone else before."

Again the handle pressed to her skin, making a deliberate trek up the curve of her spine. "Aye," he whispered again, as though he had uncovered the answer to some grand mystery of the ages, "I think Maccus has quite the eye for ye, girl. Let's be sure to not disappoint him, eh?" the handle drew back and she heard the telltale _hiss_ of a weapon preparing to strike, "Be a good girl and make sure Maccus can hear his little pet scream."

Cold leather and various trinkets of torture abruptly descended upon her flesh, sinking past skin and muscle to the willowy bones beneath the body's natural protection. Barely a moment's pause allowed her to accept the biting sting blossoming from her shoulder blade, and then the rope jerked back with the flick of his wrist and arm. Soft and tender flesh, still clinging desperately to the muscle and nerves beneath it, was wrenched away with streams of blood rising up hot and fast to spill out of the gaping wounds.

She screamed.


	6. Rules

**A/N: Alright, even though I said chapter 5 was going to be my last update on "Lovebearing Storm", I decided that it was mildly cruel to leave you all on the cliffhanger that was last chapter's ending. So, I offer up the contents of chapter 6 for your reading pleasure. I feel this is a better time to put this story on a short hold notice, since it's technically the beginning of a new chapter in the story's overall plot, as well as the relationship between Maccus and Lena. **

**I thank you all for your patience with me while I continue work on this story, and I hope to be back with you before long. Please enjoy and leave a little review on your way out.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Rules**

The ruckus of drunken slurs and raucous calls filled the _Dutchman_'s lower quarters, but the upper decks were blessedly quiet even in the later hours of night. The waves, however, did not prove quite as calm as they had previously been. Each crash along the tattered planks resounded and lingered on the air long after the next came about, filling the air with a senseless and grating symphony that would be unnerving to many. Yet the unpredictable rhythm proved almost hypnotic as Maccus stared out at the rolling waves. Beside him lay his axe and a small piece of flint with which he'd been sharpening the blade of his favored weapon. But the task was long since abandoned as his attention was stolen by the reckless dance of the turquoise waters. In these moments, he could remember just why he'd eagerly chosen a life upon the seas, far away from the cobbled streets of his youth and every constraint of "civilized society". In these moments, he could almost forget any and all regrets for forever swearing himself to this life.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

He could feel the captain's dark eyes lingering on him with the brutal intensity of a tiger crouching in tall grass. Even when he would have preferred to keep his gaze on the foam-laced horizon, he was hardly foolish enough to ignore the captain—particularly on these rare occasions when he ventured from his private cabin to join the subordinates on deck.

"It seems we had a little trouble earlier." Jones said quietly in a tone that disguised all emotion with great ease. Even for one as hardened as he, Maccus still found a disconcerting shift in his mood when that tone was directed at him; engaging with the captain when his temperament could not be properly discerned was a worse encounter than to face him in a fiery rage—he could change in little more than the blink of an eye. "Perhaps ye care to enlighten me with yer side of events?"

"What has the girl told you?" he asked quietly, somehow knowing he wouldn't be reprimanded for not immediately answering the question.

"I haven't seen or spoken to her, and I don't much intend to do so." Jones replied in that damned neutral tone, "I don't fancy she ordered the boatswain on herself."

Maccus' jaw tightened as he met the captain's dark eyes set upon an eerily calm expression. Against his better judgment, he felt the sting of indignation at having his orders questioned—even by the captain. He had never before needed to explain himself when he'd set Jimmylegs on the others...but then again, none of the others were a thirteen year old girl.

"You didn't see her, Captain." he said quietly, forcing himself to keep any traces of frustration in check before continuing. "She was little more than an animal, ripping at him with her bare hands without a care for whether he lived or died. Her anger is well above anything we have ever dealt with aboard this ship before...a rage as unpredictable as the waves themselves."

Jones blinked. "And ye thought a little private time with the boatswain would clear her head, did ye?"

"She would not curb her temper even when I dragged her away by her throat." this time, the answer came through slightly gritted teeth as indignation again pricked his nerves. "Not even the threat of physical injury brings her back to reality."

Again, the captain blinked. "Just another little spurt of a woman's wrath, hmm?"

Maccus paused this time, all-too clearly reading into the underlying implication of the posed question. Tightening his jaw slightly, he finally answered, "No. This was something deeper. It was not a tantrum as much as it was an expulsion of pure hatred...something she might have kept buried for months—perhaps years."

A brief moment followed in silence before he shook his head firmly and stiffened his posture before he might be mistaken for some sympathetic figure to her plight. "Nevertheless...whatever her reasons may be, they don't excuse her behavior. Her inability to curb her temper, and her willingness to lash out without regard, makes her an even greater liability to the crew. We cannot risk any further incidents like today."

The intricately carved pipe was drawn from the depths of the captain's coat, and silence passed again as he drew a few slow breaths from the heated instrument. His eyes were darker than before as he carefully considered his first mate's words with a few slow and heavy nods. Finally, his gaze returned to Maccus with a decisive air. "Perhaps yer right...but she is still young." he paused, and then nodded to himself, "Yes...she is young and she can be trained—taught to keep herself in check and do as she's expected." another pause followed before traces of a smile curved his lips, "And you will be the one to teach her."

Maccus blinked a few times, bewilderment taking momentary place upon his features before it was replaced by bristling agitation. "With all due respect, sir," he said stiffly, "I have better things to do than babysit a child."

The captain gave a dark chuckle around his pipe as he exhaled a small ring of pale smoke upon the night air. "The girl may be many things, Maccus...but mark my words, she is no child."

The first mate only scowled, hardly looking convinced of any such claim. "May I respectfully point out that you have just proven my point?" he replied, "Thirteen years she lived a life that has clearly conceived a vast pool of anger inside her heart and her mind. Thirteen years of that kind of life cannot be so easily dismissed and forgotten, even aboard this ship."

Another pair of rings passed upon the winds. "Yer point?"

"She will _not_ be so easily retrained, not with all that rage and blood-lust built up inside." Maccus insisted quietly, "Whatever her life was before she came to us, it has made her a loose cannon with a rapidly burning fuse. She is dangerous to any who cross her."

Jones nodded calmly as he turned away, pipe still in hand, "Well then..." he answered idly, "_That_ should make her a perfect match for you, shouldn't it?"

* * *

The last little streak of light was gone from the sky before Maccus finally forced himself down the small hatch to venture below deck. The indignity of this was perfectly degrading. The girl was a danger to the rest of the crew, and even after her actions blatantly deemed her unfit for servitude, _still_ the captain would not release her. It would have been an act of mercy to put her out of such a miserable existence and let her take her chances in the afterlife. Surely she was young enough that the heavenly powers might consent to show pity and allow her some taste of peace after an undoubtedly wretched existence?

Showing her mercy was _not_ the _Dutchman's_ responsibility, just as playing her watchful keeper was not his. This was humiliating in every possible sense of the word.

He wasn't entirely sure what he expected to hear when he finally approached that infamous corner of the ship's lower quarters. Only a few crewmen had ever had the misfortune of being dragged into this wretched darkness, and every time they had returned in pained silence. The boatswain only reserved this little place for his most _special_ punishments, and to have been brought here was to temporarily (or permanently) lose your respectability among the rest of the crew. Anyone who endured the private treatment of Jimmyleg's whip was rendered physically impotent for at least a week, and the inability to perform your duties effectively was disgraceful to what reputation you might have previously possessed. It was only by sheer luck that Maccus himself had not suffered such indignity in his life aboard the ship, but he had certainly seen his share of crewmen returning from this place with bodies broken and mangled, heads bowed low in shame and pain.

With this in mind, perhaps he was expecting to hear sobs or whimpers...some kind of sound testifying to the physical agony she had to be experiencing. But there was only silence to greet his ears. Perhaps she had collapsed from the pain and was lying unconscious upon the wood.

No...no, she was neither weeping nor rendered unconscious. Instead, she was on her knees in an widespread pool of blood and little bits of ripped flesh. Her limbs trembled as she used scraps of her dress in the attempt to staunch her wounds. The soft line of her jaw was tightly clenched as she forced her hand to press soft cloth to gaping injury, and occasionally a tear streaked down her cheek. Still, she said nothing. Even when she had to know he was there, she neither spoke to nor looked at him.

Allowing his eyes to travel away from her shaking hands, he instead took stock of her injuries. The tiniest drop of pity swelled within him as the extensive damage steadily became illuminated even in the dim and flickering lights of the cabin. Her back had probably been whole and pristine before this incident...maybe it had even been some obscure pride and joy for her to have a few pieces of her body that were not as mauled and disfigured as her heart and mind, but now there was one less piece to remain intact. The flesh was ravaged and mutilated from what he could estimate to be fifty lashes. The damage extended to her shoulders and upper arms, though those marks were thinner and more random in pattern. She'd probably endured them by default rather than an intentional blow. The boatswain could easily become excitedly erratic in these moments, and the cat o' nine tails was likely to go astray once or twice. But even the lightest blow from that whip was enough to make a grown man cower like a dog.

It was nothing short of a miracle that she _wasn't_ unconscious. How she was still properly maneuvering her limbs was astounding.

He slowly moved closer to her bloodied form, and his hand carefully reached out to brush along a particularly deep gash that stretched around her ribcage and teased the lower curve of her breast. Almost immediately, she flinched away from him and brought both arms around her chest. Finally her eyes met his, anger still present in her alien-colored depths but more deeply entrenched in agony. Still, she remained quiet. It would be up to him to offer the first breech to this heavy silence.

"Calm down," he said quietly, folding his arms loosely across his chest. "Your skin is no stranger to my eyes. I've seen a woman before."

She only blinked and shifted her position on the bloodstained planks toward the wall. Letting her thick curls serve as some small protection for her naked body, she utilized her hands to slowly lift her up on shaking legs. "Kindly do not think my youth to be a sign of naivety and innocence, sir." her voice was soft but unmistakably cold. "You say my skin is not strange to you? Rest assured then that yours is hardly new to my eyes. I have seen a man before...in more ways than you could possibly imagine."

"Indeed," he replied in an equally chilled tone, unwilling to let the small vestiges of his pity seep through when she was returning to her insufferable behavior, "You were already kind enough to divulge that aspect of your life—a private woman to serve out the captain's private tasks."

Her eyes turned back to his with defiance steadily returning. "At least I am not as blatant about my _tasks_ as you."

The fingers of his right hand twitched slightly in an involuntary response. Damn her for so easily grating his nerves...none of the others were this impertinent. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" he ground out with eyes narrowed to focus on her face.

A smile forced itself upon the corners of her lips. It was hardly an expression of joy or the like, but rather a distraction from physical pain that could never be fully dismissed. "You really should try watching yourself sometime, sir...the way you move about to please the captain—your Master. You practically crawl on hands and knees to prostrate yourself before him and satisfy his every need and whim without question or hesitation." her smile remained in place as she steadied herself against the wall, and against better judgment he found himself marveling that she could be so damned intolerable when she was completely naked and still bleeding from her wounds. "So tell me...who among us is the _real_ whore?"

His jaw clenched and brought the jagged teeth of his lower jaw into his upper lip. Silently cursing away the pain, he took a deliberate step forward. "You mind your tongue, girl. The boatswain isn't the only one who can make you scream."

She blinked at a presence that had made the other crewmen tremble and cower like whimpering pups. A soul this proud and defiant was something rare to come by, and were he not on the verge of ripping that determined little expression off her face, he might have been bothered to admire her will. "Then what's stopping you, _sir_? We're alone, and I clearly need to be put in my place. So go on..." she actually stepped forward, leaving the security of the wall to approach him. "Make me scream like the disrespectful little _whore_ I am."

His fingers were just itching to do it...it throw her to the ground and let her scream for all the others to hear. She had no business believing she was above his personal brand of punishment, or that being a woman made her exempt from learning a lesson or two in respect. And he was more than happy to be the teacher she needed for those little lessons.

Yet something was stopping him, and after a long stretch of silence hanging thick and heavy between them, he finally understood just why giving in to her goading and taunting was an ineffective course of action. Of course...she _wanted_ it. She wanted to be punished through physical violence and brutal threats to her well-being. That was the life to which she was accustomed, and in that life of chaos and endless suffering she had found something—and someone—to hate and despise with all her heart. She wanted to be abused by his hand so she could hate him just as she'd hated her previous Master. Hatred was a means of _survival_ for her. She knew no other way to force herself to continue an otherwise miserable existence.

A sudden expression of calm and collected neutrality settled across his features, and he silently triumphed to see surprise touch her face and crack her icy disdain ever so slightly. "Don't flatter yourself." he said smoothly, "You have one use to us—one and only one. Should you fail to serve that purpose, you're simply another soul to be lost away at sea for the afterlife to comfort or condemn."

She blinked away her surprise and resumed her previous expression. "I see...so mending a line and cleaning cannons is your ultimate purpose for me."

"Perhaps you would be more at ease if we had you resume your _previous_ duties." he replied, eyes watchful as her face tightened. "Perhaps you would enjoy it if we entertained ourselves in the same way your Master did, hmm?"

What little color that already existed in her face drained as her teeth visibly clenched and fingers curled into the tender skin of her palm. Already he could see tiny droplets of blood leaking out from between the clenched digits, and he silently entertained another moment of triumph. He knew just how to break that icy exterior of hers. She wasn't as much of a mystery as the others would make her out to be...not to him.

"Tell me," he spoke calmly and watched as the simplicity of such a tone grated her nerves. With calculating and deliberate steps, he circled her form and watched as each word tightened the muscles in her face and limbs, like a rope being wound tighter and tighter until the threads simply frayed and snapped apart. "how did they like it? Did they want you to dance for them...show them just how loose and wild your body really is? Did they need you to satisfy their hunger for young flesh and blood every night, always at their whim to serve without complaints—playing the eager toy to be used for the depravity of their lust? Did they need you tell them how much you liked it? How you simply couldn't get enough of what they were doing to you? Did they like it when you _begged_ for more?"

She was shaking again, but this time it had nothing to do with physical pain, and he knew it. He let his words hang in the air for a moment, sinking into her senses before finally adding, with a dark smile to lace his words, "Or did they prefer to have you waiting when they returned from battle, ready to welcome the strong and proud victors...and then you got down like a dog and happily licked their wounds?"

That was it.

Her eyes flew open with hatred pulsing through the vibrant depths as she lunged for him—probably to take his throat. It was impressive to watch the way her control shattered with nothing but a few well-chosen words. She knew he was far greater of a threat than that spineless coward, and yet she didn't care. She clearly only cared about silencing the provider of any and all words that reminded her of just how damaged and broken she was, even if she'd easily be killed in the process.

But he had no intentions of killing her...not yet.

Her hands were both caught in his unyielding grasp, and without further ado or concern he threw her back against the wall. She gave a soft hiss at the tattered planks grating upon her marred skin, but even then she was prepared to attack again. Unfortunately for her, he was just as prepared.

"Want to rip my throat out, do you?" he snarled, forgoing any distance between their bodies and bringing his face mere inches from hers. The anger in her eyes gave way to unnerved surprise and maybe even a drop of fear. He would have been thrilled to see her finally taste fear in his presence, but there was a greater matter to be dealt with, and his victory would have to wait. "Want to gut me and rip me apart limb from limb, just like you did to that worthless dog? Is that what you want, girl? _Is it_?"

The words hung in the air amidst the silence that followed. Further words need not be spoken so long as the connection between their eyes remained unbroken. Cerulean-rimmed eyes of black met the piercing gaze of golden pools churning with confusion and fear, with the remnants of a potent rage that may never fully leave the deeper components of her heart, not even in the presence of contrasting emotions. Her body remained stiff and unmoving against the wall, no doubt unwilling to move and give him another chance to lay hands upon her. She need not have worried. He had no intention of using physical contact to restrain her again. If she still wanted to try and take his throat, she would quickly learn the error of allowing emotion to guide her actions before rational thought.

Finally, another emotion surfaced to slowly dissipate the lingering vestiges of rage in her eyes—understanding, realization...and finally _reason_. Her posture relaxed ever so slightly and the connection between their eyes was broken as she looked down to the ground.

He stepped back with a slow nod. "There are rules here." Maccus said quietly, "And in order follow these rules, _this_ is the control you must show no matter what. If you want to be a member of this crew, you will let your head do the thinking for you, not that lightening-quick temper of yours. If you can't do this, you'll be joining the scum in the depths. Do you understand me?"

She remained quiet for a moment, but then offered a stiff nod. "I understand."

"For your sake," he answered coolly, "I hope you do. You will _not_ let your anger get the better of you again—ever. Emotions like that make you a liability to this crew, and that is unacceptable."

She looked up at him with a scowl. "If I'm nothing more than a poor investment, then just put me out of my misery and let me take my chances in the afterlife. Why drag out my misbegotten existence any longer?"

He considered her for a long moment, both despising and needing the silence for a little while longer before he could give his answer. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure _he_ knew the answer to her question. It would certainly save everyone time and effort if they simply did away with her as they did so many others. After all, wasn't it bad luck to keep a woman on board—especially a young woman, let alone one with such a volatile temper lingering just beneath a facade of dignity and innocence?

Yet even so...perhaps the captain was right. Anger and hatred could be transformed into something else if enough time was allowed...but only if _she_ would allow it.

"For all else that you are," he said quietly, "I believe you capable of being slightly more useful than an unfortunate burden or a common whore. But the choice is in _your_ hands. We cannot force you to become something else if you do not wish it. You want to stay angry and continue to be nothing but an bitter child and damaged soul, then you can stay that way for all I care. Continue to base survival upon your anger, and you'll learn the consequences soon enough."

He turned away from her, but her eyes were fixated on him even still. It was not a furious glare or disgusted sneer, but a gaze that carried the innocence of a child. Even without daring to look back and meet her eyes, he knew that this was the first time in the few months since she'd condemned herself to this life that he might recognize her as a child. Her defiance and her nearly primal rage was indeed infuriating, but it also made it remarkably easy to forget just how young she was.

Briefly, he let himself wonder if she had ever been lucky enough to have a childhood. Personally, he doubted it.

"I've never known my parents." her voice cut through the silence, soft yet strong as the words carried across the short distance between them. "I was raped by the Master when I was nine years old, and then before my body could properly heal I was handed off to three of his associates as a payment for their services. His concubines tried to fill my head with lies, telling me that his pleasure was _my_ pleasure and by default, it wasn't rape..._couldn't_ be rape because _**he**_ was enjoying it. For the last four years, that has been my life—being raped again and again and told to enjoy every minute of it. No one has been there to heal my wounds, wipe away my tears and hold me when I needed it...and no one has ever been around to give a damn whether I lived or died. _I am angry_," her voice grew dark and bitter as she spat the words out, "and I have a _right_ to be angry!"

Her voice fell silent, and when she spoke again it was much softer...and the coarseness of unshed tears lingered upon her tongue. "But...I can do this. I _will_ do this."

Slowly, Maccus finally turned to face her and found free-falling trails of clear liquid staining her face. But her eyes were bright and clear, and her voice was much stronger now that he had finally met her gaze. Odd that she should find some semblance of strength in his presence. No other could boost of such an achievement.

"I will not disappoint you." she added softly. "I promise."

His eyes surveyed her for a brief moment before he offered a silent nod. "See that you don't." he answered, softer than intended. Within seconds, his demeanor had lost its sympathetic element and resumed that of a stoic first mate once again. "Clanker will be with you in a moment...he should be able to help you mend that." he nodded towards the tattered remains of her dress on the floor.

She nodded in turn and slowly gathered her clothes in trembling hands. He dared to forgo any sense of propriety and watch as she slipped back into the tattered remains of her dress. If she sensed his attention, she didn't address it. Perhaps she was simply too accustomed to the gaze of a man upon her body...more so than one as young as she should ever be familiar with.

"Sir?" she offered quietly, "Tell me...is it really so easy to lock your emotions away like that...even once you've set them free?"

He only sighed before looking back at her—this mangled and damaged soul that had come to this ship far more broken than those who had lost decades to this vessel. Even in her lack of innocence, she was far more of a child than he could have expected. A creature worthy of pity and the like, yet it was those very things that she clearly despised and would have loathed even more than she did her Master's deplorable actions. Yet even against his better judgment, he found the long-forgotten remnants of something far deeper than pity or sympathy stirring within the vestiges of his broken soul. Something he had not used in decades, but not all-together exiled from either his heart or mind.

He just wasn't prepared to acknowledge it yet.

"You'll learn in time, Lena." He said quietly. Her name was strangely light upon his tongue. "Believe me...you don't have a choice."


End file.
